The Hitwizard Squad
by zombiespartan117
Summary: A squad of elite wizards has just lost a member. After rigourous training, can Harry fill the spot? Hitwizard!Realistic!Gritty! Harry. Manipulative Dumbledore. Set after book four.
1. Prologue

Hitwizard Squad

The guard paced the solid stone wall, carefully stepping over the various traps that were set up along it's formidable length. His right hand was firmly wrapped around the base of his holstered wand, and his lips were curled into the beginning of a curse. The various magical creatures he had put under extremely strong compulsion charms were patrolling the area in front of the wand. They directly informed him of the happenings in the dark forest.

Another guard, almost perfectly mirroring his position was just a few hundred feet down the wall. Every sentinel's patrolling was supposed to be random, but it was nigh impossible to not slip into some semblance of an ordered round. The human mind found patterns and made them rigidly comply with what happened outside of the subconscious and conscious. However, each pattern was so lengthy and complicated it took an expert analysis to figure out said pattern.

In the daytime, the villa was a charming place, with colorful birds that flitted every which-way, vainly showing off their impressive plumage. The sun's light poured in like honey, painting everything a cheery shade lighter. The pools of clean, standing water glistened like a lake of diamonds, as they reflected the suns light in abstract coronas of white light.

The plaster-white buildings sparkled with cleanliness, a standard that was carried on, even accentuated by the people inside. Their cheeriness and wonderful rapport with each other was almost never discovered to be a deception. For in reality, the villa was a place of death and desolation, with each newly overturned mound of earth carefully disguised with a wonderful patch of wildflowers, or painstakingly concealed with a mosaic or fresco.

The owner of the villa was a notorious murderer, gambler, and liar. If you talked to the right people, all of his tales of destruction were told with religious detail, like the Bible talks about Satan.

The dreary picture the owner of the veritable castle, an evil man named Anakletos Manos, painted was quite well coupled with the somber night that pressed down on all the guards. But it was about to become more exciting.

A loud and terrifying scream was heard, and the guard rushed to see his partner on the ground in front of the wall, scared but otherwise undamaged. "What happened?" asked the guard on the wall.

"Some damn ministry Auror, or something. He switched places with me and is inside the wall. He told me he has tons of explosives and listening devices rigged though," an unspoken look from the guard on the ground told the guard on the wall that he needed to whisper what he needed to say, or everyone would go up in blazing flames.

"Hold on, I'll get you up here," the guard on the wall said. "Wingardium Leviosa." Quickly shutting off the defensive wards, he lifted the man onto the wall and turned the wards off. He then immediately fell to the ground, letting a blue jet of light sink into his skin, courtesy of the other man's wand.

"This is Tragedy, calling Faceless. I'm inside. I've got the guard under my modified stunner, and I'm ready to get rid of the wards. Are you ready?" asked the still-conscious man, his appearance fading into a figure in a dark cloak and a stylized white face mask with exaggerated tear tracks and sad eyes, much like an ancient theater mask.

"Yes, we're in position," said Faceless from behind the wall. Underneath his mask, Tragedy rolled his eyes. Faceless was always so concise, and boring. That's probably why his name was Faceless.

"I'm lowering the wards in three… two… one," came Tragedy's reply. There was a quiet crackle, and they lowered. Four other figures blurred into appearance on the wall, and the crackling noise reverted itself.

The first new figure was Faceless himself, with the same non-descript black robe and a plain white mask with no features at all.

The second had a mask with a laughing mouth and upturned eyes. Comedy.

The third had a mask with heavy features, and an angular mouth. He was Heavy. He carried a staff and a gun on his back.

The final one had a frightening white mask with the features of a ghoul etched on it. He was codenamed Death.

"Drop!" came Tragedy's quick order, and the five figures fell prone on the wall. He quickly cast a Notice-me-not charm on the whole group, and awakened the guard, quickly modifying his memory. The guard's eyes slid out of focus, he stood up, a fierce expression adorning his features. He began to pace the wall again, just like before.

"Comedy, do you want the target?" Tragedy asked, hoping the other wizard said no.

"Of course, silly!" Comedy's corkscrewing voice answered. "I want to splatter his brains on the wall! It'll be fun! Ghoulie can help!"

Death's mask whipped towards Comedy, leaving no doubt that he was worth of his namesake. "Come on Ghoulie! I love hearing your beautiful voice! French is such a lovely language!"

"That's enough Comedy. You can pick up the kill. Do you know which one is his room? It gets changed every night. I'll send it to your mask." Tragedy quickly exerted himself, sending it with his Legimency.

Without another word, Tragedy stood up, waving to the others to get up. They did, and they shot off towards the room that they knew contained their target. Manos.

They dropped on the roof, everybody but Comedy being almost totally silent. Instead, he crashed through the roof, startling a certain Greek wizard. Mentally swearing, Tragedy cast a Silencing charm around the whole building, knowing it would do no good. "God dammit Comedy! Kill him now; we've got to go! There's no way we can get all of the security he's hired!"

There was a flash of light, a disgusting squelching sound, and Comedy's head popped out of the hole in the roof he had made. "Sorry Trage."

Tragedy shook his head, loudly swearing at all the Apparition pops he heard around him. Death's head popped up, and a hand shot out of his cloak, a scythe made out of solid darkness pooling in his hand. "Ils vont mourir," He said in a deep voice, almost immediately jumping forward and slicing a man in half.

Heavy threw something at Tragedy, who caught it. A gun. "What's it got?" he asked, trying not to go crazy.

"Bludgeoners and bonebreakers. Every other shot," Heavy answered in a thick Russian accent.

Tragedy nodded, bringing up the rifle. Faceless caught a gun from heavy as well. Heavy set down three heavy metal cans on the roof of the building. It was their ammo. "Well, they asked for it."

The team immediately went into action, bar Death, who had already done so, and was currently slinging some explosion spell out of his scythe.

Tragedy fired his rifle, trusting the charms to automatically reload it. Squeeze. One man was dead, flung from the top of a tree and into a wall, letting a sick crack permeate the battlefield.

Heavy carved out swathes with a machine gun, stopping every once in a while to dodge the occasional curse. Not many could duel with his machine gun.

Comedy would disappear and pop up behind a group of enemies and throw an explosive something, or slit someone's throat. He came up with a large and creative variety of deaths and tortures to use on his opponents. Faceless had jumped on an armored broom, and was using the rifle Heavy had given him to great effect. The bullets had piercing wards carved into them, and there were not many things they couldn't penetrate.

In short, they were amazing to watch in action. Within five minutes they had killed two hundred people. Only around one hundred remained. But the hitwizards were not without injuries. Faceless sported a small but deep puncture wound an annoying piercing curse had left him. Heavy had several slashes on his chest from a Mauling curse sent his way. Comedy also had several minor wounds, but they left him hungry for more action. Equally, Death's reckless tactics caused him several slashes, but it only incensed him for more action.

Tragedy was untouched, surprisingly. This soon changed as he ran out of ammo and was forced to use his wand. He was still good, but several curses clipped him as he rolled and dodged ten others. Suddenly, forty green jets of light, converging on Tragedy, matched forty green flashes earlier. He smirked, apparating away… only to find he had not moved at all. Damn! He thought, staring at a man who had laid down some anti-apparition wards. He used a spell the runes did not cover to send everything he had on him but his robe to heavy, and then dropped a grenade. The Avada Kedavras hit him, and the grenade blew up what remained of his corpse.

Faceless saw it and felt no need to weep, but did feel a sense of loss. He immediately apparated to Heavy, who was now carrying Tragedy's stuff, grabbed him, apparated to Comedy, grabbed him, and apparated to Death, caught him in midswing, and forced him to Side-along. They arrived at the gate, which Heavy blew up, and sprinted out. Once they were outside, they apparated in the same way they did out, except without Tragedy. All could feel the loss, as Tragedy had handpicked every one of them, and it was a somber and sullen team that walked back to their headquarters deep underneath the ministry, even further then that of the Unspeakables, and flopped down on the floor of their base that "didn't exist". Heavy dropped Tragedy's mask, fell to the ground, compulsively hiding his sadness by taking one of his many guns apart.

The sadness of death had fallen upon them all.

A/N: First story, going to continue, blah, blah, review, blah. Updates at least every week. This is much shorter then normal. If I don't post after a week, feel free to pelt me with e-mails!


	2. Chapter 1: Death by Hitwizard

Harry James Potter was currently riding in a speeding car, hearing nothing but the rhythm of his own breath and the tapping of Harry's cousin, Dudley's, fingers. Bright flashing lights sprung from the scene that played out on Dudley's game. There was some person with a sword and some girl with a spear, killing things. The lights speared Harry's brain, and the massive headache that had begun to threaten him at the end of the train ride reared its ugly head. Harry wanted to hex Dudley, and he knew some good ones after the Triwizard Tournament.

He looked out of the window, contemplating the last year. Ron was a total git. Harry wondered why he was even friends with him. Ron just seemed to infuriate Harry, just as Hermione seemed to calm him. Why was life so confusing? And Professor Moody, as incredibly talented as he was, had been defeated by one of Voldemort's agents. Voldemort was growing stronger everyday, and so far the only training that Harry had done involved minor curses and hexes. His potions were abysmal, his transfiguration was average, and his charms were towards the bottom of the class. The only things he excelled in were Defense against the Dark Arts, and flying, and he didn't even work very hard at those!

Harry needed to learn how to attack the Dark Arts, not to defend against them. He already had that down, thank you very much. Harry briefly resolved to try and convince Dumbledore to let him go to Diagon Alley and pick up some books. He continued to stare out the window, watching the countryside fly by, when he saw a bright flash in the distance. Faster then he could react, he, and the rest of the car and its inhabitants, were sent flying, the car barrel-rolling through the air. Something slammed into the window, and he saw Tonks slumped on a broom. Was she dead?

Harry landed, and there must have been a Cushioning charm, because their impact with the ground was nothing more then a quick stop. The car landed on its side, with bottom towards the direction of his attackers. He quickly opened the door, thankful for being on the top and not squished beneath Dudley's girth, (what an awful thought that was) and clambered out. He landed on the side of the car away from the attackers, and wondered what to do. _Get your broom, flying is a strength_, he heard a voice in the back of his head say.

"Accio Firebolt!" shouted Harry, pulling his wand out of his pocket. It was remarkably intact. He saw Tonks still lying there, unresponsive. His Firebolt shot at him, and he grabbed it out of the air, mounting it and pushing off of the ground. The Statute of Secrecy was already blown to hell, that's what Obliviators were paid for. He soared up, seeing his attackers already zooming towards him. He flew away, speeding away from the threat. It wasn't in his nature to flee, but he knew there were quite a few assailants. He felt a wand tap his head and spun around, seeing a Death Eater! No, it was close, but it wasn't the traditional mask. It took the visage of Death itself, deviating from the Death Eater masks. He suddenly felt like an egg was being broken on top of his head, and trickling down his back, when he realized he was being disillusioned. Three other figures materialized, flying recklessly at the threat.

Harry wrestled free of the masked man's grasp, and decided he was a friend. After all, he was trying to hide Harry, right? The Boy-who-might-have-just-died flew ever higher, taking a bird's eye view of the battle. The death eaters split into quarters, three quarters going after the four mounted 'friends', and one quarter going after Harry. That meant Harry had to deal with five Death Eaters. Harry briefly went over his repertoire of spells. Accio, Banisho, Engorgio, Diffindo, Impedimenta, and Incendio. Harry couldn't think of any others, although there were more.

Harry cast a diffindo at one Death eater, who dodged it, laughing all the while. Getting creative, he made a pass over one of the Death Eaters, and jumped off, knocking him off of his broom. Harry's Firebolt started to tumble to the ground, and Harry used Accio, jumping on it and holding the other broom. He made it larger, and when his broom was struggling with the weight, he lobbed it in the face of another Death eater. He fell off of his broom and tumbled to the ground. Harry looked away. The remaining flyers, stunned, started to throw Unforgivables at Harry, who dodged them, but they were getting closer, and Harry started getting worried. Suddenly, there was a blast as one Death Eater was sent flying off of his broom. On of the masked friends cocked what Harry recognized to be a shotgun with a satisfying sound, and the casing tumbled to the ground.

Holy… shit, Harry thought, unconsciously backing up with his broom. Another masked figure, the one that had disillusioned him, sliced off the head of another with a large scythe. Another masked figure took care of the final one by throwing something, and the Death Eater clutched his throat, and fell to the ground. "What was that?" he heard the one say. It was hard to tell who it was.

"Card! It had a sharpening rune carved on it by Gent," said another in a happy, satisfied voice. Did the card impale the man's throat? Harry briefly wondered if the final Death Eater had died of suffocation or bleeding.

"Potter! Follow us. I know you probably want to fly away, but really, if we wanted to we could knock you out and take you by force," that was voice number one. Shotgun.

"Venez nous ou de vous tuer," said a deep voice that sounded like he wanted to murder Harry. One laughed, but Harry nodded. "Bien. Saisir cette clé port," there was the voice again. Harry was very confused, not knowing what any of this meant. He held out his scythe, which everyone else grasped, so Harry decided to do so as well. Was it a portkey? Yes. Just as he touched it, he felt the familiar tugging of his navel, and was lifted out of time and space and plopped back down in a dark room that just felt subterranean.

12 years later

The dark-haired man smirked as the alarms went off. So the last one had finally betrayed him. He had been waiting for this to happen. It would be a good assessment of how far he had come. He could feel the dark magic gathering right outside of the throne room. The throne room's black, wooden door was starting to splinter under the stress of the magic. The ornate paintings on every wall started to shake, some of castles, or veela of untold beauty. Yet others depicted bright, sunny meadows, a feeling that greatly contrasted the intense feeling of evil. Suddenly, the door was slashed open, and a scythe poked through the wooden door, giving way to a black-cloaked man with the mask of Death.

"Death, welcome! Would you like something to drink?" asked the man in a tone that signified his complete confidence. With a wave of his wand, he conjured a glass of wine and held it in his hand. Even the glass radiated evil, with intricate patterns and dark runes carved on it's black metal. He mockingly rolled the blood red wind around in its chalice.

"You bastard… I don't know why I haven't killed you yet… just like you killed that boy we were recruiting," said Death in a deep voice with a heavy French accent. Darkness pooled in his left hand and the room dropped a couple of degrees in temperature. It continuously grew, until it seemed to engulf the masked man's hand. It suddenly shot forward, just a streak of solid darkness, and it exploded at the other man's feet, sending a huge cloud of black up, kicking up dust and shaking the ground. The cloud cleared unnaturally quickly, and revealed the man holding a similar scythe, the ball of darkness gathered at the tip of the blade. The chalice was on the floor, blood red wine spreading on the stone floor and darker red carpet. It darkened, mimicking the real blood that was sure to come.

He contemptuously sent it back, at speeds more then doubling the first one. It slammed into Death's chest, sending him flying and impacting the wall at an unnatural angle. Death fell down, a trickle of dust and small stones following him. There was a large dent and spider web of cracks where he had been mercilessly slammed into the solid rock wall. Death immediately felt darkness encasing the broken joint, quickly healing it. "It'll take more then that. I'm out for the blood!"

He shot forward, his scythe clashing with that of the other man's. They were suddenly locked in a deadly dance, bone-white blades flashing here, matte black pole against matte black pole creating a dull thumping sound. Death's boot-covered feet pounded the floor, while the other's feet lightly touched against the ground, then rapidly moved again. It was obviously economy of movement. Neither showed any sign of stopping, until Death caught the blade of the other scythe with his gloved hand, blood seeping out of the wound. He quickly slashed at the other's side, but he dodged and drew his scythe back, deepening the cut.

Death snarled, accessed his magical core and his magical levels shot through the roof, black tendrils whipping around him. The other man could feel small cuts appear on his face as the dark magic whipped up dust and small stones. He exuded such an aura of power that the other man unconsciously took a step back, until he mirrored the move. He sent a blast of darkness, at Death, who countered with an equally powered one. They exploded in a fantastic wave of solid shadows. Blast after blast met each other, each one gradually getting stronger, until Death stepped it up, sending his power even further out, his dark flames suddenly doubling, tripling, quadrupling. They tickled the paintings, and the paint started to melt, drooping figures exemplifying the macabre type of power being used.

Again, the mysterious other figure suddenly grew in power, leveling the playing field with Death, and then far surpassing it. With a condescending flick of his scythe, a blast hit Death, and he was sent flying. "I grow tired of our fight," he said, sending another blast at Death, pounding him further and further into the wall. Letting the dust clear, Death let out one last groan, and the other figure smirked, walking over to the supine figure. Death was a mess of tangled robes and flesh, blood and small rocks. He stood over the figure, and slowly raised his scythe up, prolonging the intense enjoyment.

With barely a sound, Death impaled the other man on his scythe. He slowly smiled, a happy, genuine smile. "And…" he coughed up blood, knowing his time was up, "so it ends."

Present time

Harry looked around the room. It was hard to tell details, but it seemed fairly Spartan. There were seven doors. Six of them looked completely the same, but the seventh was heavily locked by Muggle and Magical means, and had many glowing runes around and on it. "Where am I?" Harry shouted, looking around wildly. As he did so, his black hair whipped around his face, and he started to back up from the other wizards. Death pulled his scythe away from the rest of the wizards, and stared at Harry. Death began to speak.

"Stupid boy, you pick up wand and go through," he kicked open a door, "this door."

"W-what? I thought… no French? You sound Asian!" Harry accused, getting more confused by the second. Death's answer was to point towards the door. He threateningly pulled his wand out of its holster, and Harry rushed towards his room. Once he entered, he closed the door and looked around. Was he a prisoner? The room was just as Spartan as the first. There were three cots, and he set his broom and wand down by one. Hedwig! Was she dead? Harry wondered, suddenly intensely worried for his owl. No, she wasn't. When he got his Firebolt he had opened her cage, and she had flew away. With any luck she would find Harry, or Professor Dumbledore.

The room was clean, however, and there was a lamp in the corner and a desk as well. He turned on the lamp, knowing how to do so from his Muggle upbringing. Harry sat at the desk, looking at the quill and sealed bottle of ink. He looked underneath the desk to see a piece of paper. He picked it up, noticing that it looked rather official.

Official Discharge of CODENAME: Tragedy

Official Name- Classified

Compensation to Unit- 4000 galleons

C.O.D.- Enemy involvement (Killing Curse)

Wand(s)- 11 inch dragon heartstring willow, 8 inch phoenix feather elder, 12 inch dragon heartstring yew

Possessions Reclaimed- N/A

Branch Discharged From- Classified

Permission has been granted to train a suitable replacement within a year. Replacement is declared legally of age, if not already by a year.

Signed,

Albericht Tenkoff

Albericht Tenkoff, Head of Hitwizards

Harry decided this must mean some guy named Tragedy had died of the Killing Curse, and Harry was being trained as a replacement. Harry also realized he had three wands! Being a Hitwizard had some perks! Of course, the downside was an apparently extremely dangerous career. Harry had no idea that no Hitwizard had ever retired. He grabbed his wand and sat on his cot, observing it. He couldn't imagine having three wands on hand. Then again, when he was not at Hogwarts he almost never had his wand on him. He resolved to fix that. I'll need to pick up something to carry my wand in, do they make some kind of holster? It would make since, Harry mused.

Suddenly, the door opened, and he saw an eerily smiling mask poking through the door. "Come on out!" the man said, ending it with a rather creepy laugh. Harry gulped and stood up, trying to conceal his wand, even though he knew he was about to talk to a group of elite wizards.

"Harry James Potter, you have been nominated to become a member of Hitwizard Squad One."

A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry this was out so late, I've been sick, blah, excuses, blah. Anyways, from now on most chapters with have flash-forwards. Again, most chapters will usually be longer then this.


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